Reading this book is like masturbating with crippling arthritis (or so I imagine) – it takes forever and it’s really painful, but there must be a payoff at the end, right??

Update: I finished and yes, that’s pretty much what it’s like. I would add to that that the resultant orgasm is weak and you barely even notice it because you’ve fallen asleep by that point. Your pants may be mildly wet, but if you sleep for more than a few minutes they will have long since dried.

But seriously folks. OK, more seriously.

This is not a “novel” per se, but more of a “meta-novel” or something of that ilk. It’s not so much as a story, as a philosophical essay about the (re)construction of knowledge, the lack of value in having a plot, and being Italian. I guess.

I wish I had more to say but the whole experience was kind of a let down. Like I said, I slept through the climax. Q.O

ONE AND A HALF STARS

Here’s a link to bits and pieces of a hoidy toidy analytical essay about the book. If that’s your thing.

I’m SURE many, many people enjoy this book for the right reasons, but “I’m just not that into it”. So, make of that what you will. I get what he’s doing, kinda, really I do. I just don’t care.